_Edw._ O day the last of all my bliss on earth! Centre of all misfortune! O my stars, Why do you lour unkindly on a king? Come[s] Leicester, then in Isabella's name To take my life, my company from me? Here, man, rip up this panting breast of mine, And take my heart in rescue of my friends! _Rice._ Away with them! _Y. Spen._ It may become thee yet To let us take our farewell of his grace. _Abbot._ My heart with pity earns[298] to see this sight, 70 A king to bear these words and proud commands. _Edw._ Spencer, ah, sweet Spencer, thus then must we part? _Y. Spen._ We must, my lord, so will the angry heavens. _Edw._ Nay, so will hell and cruel Mortimer; The gentle heavens have not to do in this. _Bald._ My lord, it is in vain to grieve or storm. Here humbly of your grace we take our leaves; Our lots are cast; I fear me, so is thine. _Edw._ In heaven we may, in earth ne'er shall we meet: And, Leicester, say, what shall become of us? 80 _Leices._ Your majesty must go to Killingworth. _Edw._ Must! it is somewhat hard, when kings must go. _Leices._ Here is a litter ready for your grace, That waits your pleasure, and the day grows old. _Rice._ As good be gone, as stay and be benighted. _Edw._ A litter hast thou? lay me in a hearse, And to the gates of hell convey me hence; Let Pluto's bells ring out my fatal knell, And hags howl for my death at Charon's shore, For friend hath Edward none, but these and these:[299] 90 And these must die under a tyrant's sword. _Rice._ My lord, be going; care not for these, For we shall see them shorter by the heads. _Edw._ Well, that shall be, shall be: part we must! Sweet Spencer, gentle Baldock, part we must! Hence feignèd weeds! unfeignèd are my woes; [_Casts off his disguise._ Father, farewell! Leicester, thou stay'st for me, And go I must. Life, farewell, with my friends. [_Exeunt_ EDWARD _and_ LEICESTER. _Y. Spen._ O! is he gone? is noble Edward gone? Parted from hence? never to see us more? 100 Rent, sphere of heaven! and, fire, forsake thy orb! Earth, melt to air! gone is my sovereign, Gone, gone, alas! never to make return. _Bald._ Spencer, I see our souls are fleeting hence; We are deprived the sunshine of our life: Make for a new life, man; throw up thy eyes, And heart and hands to heaven's immortal throne; Pay nature's debt with cheerful countenance; Reduce we all our lessons unto this, To die, sweet Spencer, therefore live we all; 110 Spencer, all live to die, and rise to fall.